


The sun sets, and with it, comes the end

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Elements of fluff, Introspection, M/M, Multiple POV's, Pining, but still quite depressing, mentions of a characters death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 17:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18815887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: Pablo Escobar is dead. Where does everyone move on from such a thing?





	The sun sets, and with it, comes the end

Sometimes, you wait so long for something that when you get it, your sense of purpose seems to disappear.

Not to say that catching Pablo Escobar was César Gaviria’s only purpose in life, but the weight of all his decisions had meant it was his primary one, which meant it came with the same disillusionment most things with a sense of finality do. It wasn’t the ending he’d envisioned months ago, years ago, but it was an ending none the less. A chapter of his life that had brought him untold amounts of stress, suffering and pain. But it had also brought him Eduardo Sandoval.

The man willing to sacrifice the career he lived and breathed for him, the man who was a bit of a hot-headed perfectionist, but always gave good and reasonable advice. He was César’s anchor, but instead of weighing him down he just kept him level with his head above the water. The circumstances of his ascension to the Presidency had been tragic enough, and he’d sworn he would be better and do better to avoid his predecessor’s fate, whilst also honouring it. The moment Eduardo had lifted his arm in the air when his candidacy was declared, he knew he could truly trust this man, but most importantly, he hoped to be able to deserve such unwavering loyalty.

He remembers the small café, the one that Eduardo would rush into every morning for a black coffee before work. He was never one for a full breakfast, preferring the efficiency of a coffee to go. Sometimes, though, as he’d told César, he’d sit on a sunny afternoon in the café that overlooked the greener side of Bogotá and watch the world go by. Unlike César, who liked the quaint nature of the place with its terracotta tiling and vines crawling up the outside walls, Eduardo was charmed by the quiet and stillness of the café, something he was rarely offered in his line of work. At sunset, the café is virtually empty, so César orders himself a small coffee and sits outside to watch the sky swirl with orange, red and pink.

He’s only gotten halfway down his cup when a tall figure sits across from him, still dressed as smartly as ever but more casual in a button down and plain trousers. His hair is still delightfully curly, eyes as blue as they’ve ever been and even more so when they narrow in focus.

“César,” Eduardo’s voice is soft and conversational, as though they’d seen each other only yesterday and not months ago, “it’s good to see you.”

César takes the moment in, finding it hard not to appreciate the lack of resentment or remorse in Eduardo’s voice. A lesser man would’ve happily watched César crash and burn under the weight of it all, being the perfect scapegoat. Yet, not only did Eduardo take the blame, he took it willingly and without spite. He allowed himself to be bombarded with claims of corruption and incompetence, to lose the job he loved despite the stress it caused him, all for César Gaviria.

“You look well.” César says airily, as though staring at Eduardo doesn’t have his fingers practically twitching with longing, his eyes barely satisfied with just staring at the man in front of him, ethereal and _real_ , not another one of his fever dreams in which Eduardo only makes it back from La Catedral in an open casket.

“It seems not dealing with triple the amount of stress of the average person is good for me.” He smiles cheekily, something he’d rarely had time to do before, sipping at his own drink without a care in the world. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“I don’t think so.” César replies dryly, but not without crinkled eyes and a humoured smile. “I wish I could say I thought this was all worth congratulations.”

Eduardo pauses, placing his drink down delicately. “You did the best with what you had, nobody could dispute that much. Even the states attorney.”

César laughs gently, staring over his drink at Eduardo with soft eyes. “I’m sure he’d find a way to dispute it, Eduardo. I don’t doubt that for one moment.”

“Yes,” he chortles, “I suppose you’re right.”

The scenario almost feels like some kind of dream, one in which César was not burdened with the expectations and scrutiny of his job, nor Eduardo his. They’d be abroad somewhere on holiday, with nothing but each other’s company, able to learn all of the other details about one another, to be able to see them in their natural state. It sends a pang of longing deep into César’s stomach, but before he can let it consume him entirely and diminish the moment, Eduardo’s considerably larger hand rests over César’s own on the table. As if he knew what César was thinking, which he usually did.

“Do you regret it?” César allows himself to ask the question that has been burning the tip of his tongue for so long. “Leaving the way you did?”

“No.” Eduardo says, as though it’s the simplest question in the world that requires no thought or explanations. It’s just so typically Eduardo, in all of its blunt honesty, that César has to smile.

“Well, I suppose there are some things to be fortunate for.” César grasps Eduardo’s hand firmly, allowing himself to feel the warmth from his palm and revel in the harmless closeness and the intimacy.

“Are you saying that Escobar is dead, but you’re feeling fortunate because of me?” Eduardo’s tone is playful, his eyes twinkling in the deep rays of the setting sun, casting his skin in a mosaic array of colours.

“I am always fortunate for having known you.” César’s fingers brush over the back of Eduardo’s hand, a ghost of a touch. As though they both need reminding that this will most likely be the last time they’ll see one another, at least for a long time.

“I’m glad.”

César commits the image to his memory, the sunlight shining down on them both for a few more moments before darkness starts to seep around the sky and bring a chill to the air. The curls of Eduardo’s hair haphazardly falling into his eyes slightly, their fingers still locked together, the gentle kiss they share in the knowledge nobody else is able to see this moment. He tastes of coffee, his skin still warm when César’s hand grasped the back of his neck.

It would be hard to forget Eduardo Sandoval.

 

* * *

 

 

The phone only rings twice before it’s picked up, a rushed intake of breath on the other end letting Steve know that Pe͂na was listening intently, waiting for the news to come from Steve’s own mouth. They’d spoken earlier, a mere few seconds, when Pe͂na had been in a bar somewhere with the TV on. There had been a lot of noise, elated voices, but now there was weighted silence and expectation.

“So?” Pe͂na asks, his voice low and raspy, probably from the alcohol.

“We got him.” Steve says simply, staring out of his apartment window, the apartment he’d be vacating by the end of the week. No more Medellin, and definitely no more Pe͂na.

“That’s it?” He sounds moderately irritable, though he chuckles softly. “I miss out on seeing the bastard get shot on a rooftop, and all you can say is _we got him_?”

Maybe Steve is already trying to commit Pe͂na’s hoarse toned voice to his memory, the richness he has when he speaks Spanish that Steve adores so much. “What is there to say? You saw the pictures.”

“Yeah but _how was it_?” Steve can practically feel Pe͂na’s breath down his neck for a second, the intensity of his voice only making Steve pine for him more. He feels like asking Pe͂na how he’s meant to be elated in this moment when all he can think about is the fact his partner isn’t there to see it. That the man who’d shared every second of this journey with him up until the final stretch couldn’t be there, for doing something that many agents have done before him.

“I thought we were gonna lose him again,” Steve says, listening to the way Pe͂na’s slow breathing hitches slightly, as if he’s reliving the moment himself, “but then he went down.”

“He was lay there, staring at nothing.” Steve continues, practically seeing it all again in front of him. “He just looked like a sad old fucking man, Javi. All the shit he’s done, all the suffering he’s caused, and he was just lay there like a sack of shit. Like he didn’t even see it coming.”

“He probably didn’t.” Pe͂na’s voice is soft now, a small comfort to Steve who suddenly feels like he’s got phantom limb syndrome.

“I wish you were here to see it, Javi,” Steve grasps the phone tighter in his hand, staring out of the window once more, “you deserved to be here.”

“I wish I could be there,” Pe͂na replies, uncharacteristically quiet, “with you.”

Steve would be lying if he said he’d remembered how the rest of the conversation went, the expected bullshit of what both of their plans were, as if they both didn’t somehow feel cheated with the end result. As if, for the rest of his career, Steve wouldn’t be looking across his desk expecting to see a cloud of smoke and Javier Pe͂na’s furrowed brows as he types away, only to look up and crack Steve a big grin.

 _I wish I could be there with you,_ Steve thinks.

 

* * *

 

 

Pe͂na isn’t sure how he managed, in his inebriated state, to even get to the cemetery. His head is buzzing, his vision somehow sharper, fingers twitching. The night is humid, the air thick and the sky dark, other than the stark gaze of sunlight shining down on the grass. Pe͂na doesn’t need to think about where he’s going, his feet naturally take him there. He’d avoided it for a few weeks after it was initially put together, found the entire thing unbearable. The second he’d gotten up to his neck with Los Pepes, though, he’d needed the comfort and lack of judgement. He sits sloppily on the grass in front of a marble grave. Modest, considering the grave he could’ve had considering his position.

Horacio Carrillo.

Just seeing the name was enough to make his chest tighten and throat close up. A handsome, honest and good man. A man that was six feet under, unable to even revel in the downfall of a man he’d committed his career to and lost his life because of. It’s been months since Escobar was shot on a rooftop, photographed endlessly, his body displayed across the world’s media.

 _Do they know what you’ve done for them?_ Pe͂na thinks, _do they know that you kept them all safe, for a time?_

Pe͂na tries his hardest not to even entertain the thought of what his life would be like were Carrillo still in it. He wouldn’t have had to leave, for one, since he’d have never felt the desperation that had lead him to Los Pepes. Would Carrillo be elated, kissing Pe͂na until they were both breathless and laughing? Would he be silent, wanting to be held the way he sometimes had, head nestled into Pe͂na’s neck, until he drifted to sleep? Or would he be disappointed?

That question leads him to darker places, wondering exactly what Carrillo would think of him and his involvement with Los Pepes. Whilst Carrillo was no saint, he was willing to do what needed to be done to get the job done. But did that include partnership with men who killed aimlessly, with glee and reckless abandon? Pe͂na isn’t sure which answer is worse. The man in his memories is one he doesn’t want to taint with his usual brand of cynicism.

_“We’ll catch the bastard soon,” P_ _e͂na had said, his arms circled around Carrillo’s waist as they lay in bed together, “I promise.”_

_“I don’t want to catch him, Javi,” he says, the nickname catching P_ _e͂na entirely off guard,_ _“I want him dead. I don’t care how or where. I want him dead.”_

_“I know.” He replies, kissing Carrillo’s shoulder gently. “I do too.”_

He brushes his fingertips across the marble, letting the emotions pool around his stomach and blur his vision for a brief moment. He allows himself to think of his handsome partner, his world, stood with his straight back and stern face that could morph easily into a handsome smile. He imagines Carrillo’s hand, always a firm and reassuring grip, in his own, as they celebrate.

“We did it.” Pe͂na kisses his fingertips and pats the tombstone gently.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this wasn't even meant to be that angst but. I couldn't help but wonder how they'd all be after Escobar's death. Feedback always appreciated!


End file.
